


An account of the recruitment (definitely not a kidnapping, how dare you) of Mr.'s William and Henry Turner aboard the Black Pearl

by PirateArrowXAB



Series: The Further and Many Adventures of the Family Turner. [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Also also Marriage therapy ahoy, Also there's an ass, Bad Jack, Gen, I'm having so much fun writing this, It's hot, Jack sparrow should not be allowed near children, he's actually starting to channel Anakin Skywalker's hatred of sand, he's starved of attention, jack is so done, save Jack Sparrow 2k17
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-11-23 13:01:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11402934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PirateArrowXAB/pseuds/PirateArrowXAB
Summary: Jack Sparrow is convinced that any plan involving the long-term presence of William Turner aboard his ship is sure to end in disaster. Jack Sparrow has not even considered any plan involving the long-term presence of the son of a Turner and a royal, supernaturally-powered captain. Unfortunately, as he is not currently in charge aboard the Black Pearl,he has little say in these matters.





	1. A chapter, in which Capt. Jack Sparrow laments William Turner's failure to educate his son on nautical terminology

The sun beams down, hot on his back. It’s hot, his boots are filled with increasingly annoying sand, and he’s been forced to lead a crew across this bloody beach to find William bloody Turner because bloody ‘Captain’ bloody Hector bloody Barbossa wants him for some bloody plot. And, of course, darling Elizabeth wouldn’t dream of giving them a heading any more accurate than “one of the hidden coves two miles up from Port Royal, I’m sure you’ll find it easily enough”.  
Two miles where? Up where? This bloody woman captains the Flying Dutchman, of all ships, you’d think she’d have learned to give proper direc-

His train of thought is interrupted when he looks up, and sees only waves and the distant sun and horizon. It would appear that they’ve run out of beach to trudge along. Discontented muttering fills the air behind him, and Jack hears Gibbs call out for a break. He offers no protest, throwing himself down onto one of the smoother rocks at the water’s edge. He stares, unseeing, in the direction of the open ocean, fuming and ignoring the crew. The waves crash on, uncaring, uninterrupted but for the occasional dark blot of a seabird or seal. 

Seal?

Jack’s eyes focus on the dark shape bobbing under the waves – dark fur, or darkened hair? He makes as if to turn, call to a man with sharper eyes when…

When…

What the bloody hell is this?

Jack is dimly aware that the men behind him have fallen silent, but he’s a little preoccupied with the miniature human beside him, a lad that has somehow sneaked to his side in the brief time he’s been sat on this rock. The child also stares out over the waves, blond hair wind-tousled and shirt untucked and spray-dampened. Jack closes his eyes. This is hopefully some drunken nightmare, and when he wakes he won’t be on this sweltering hell-strand with a resentful crew and some miniature apparition.

He’s most disappointed to be proven wrong when he opens his eyes again.

The child is looking away from the waves now, turned to face the distant cove where the Pearl is anchored. A pointed cough sounds behind the two of them, but Jack ignores it, crab-stepping away from his rock to crouch beside the boy. He doesn’t usually like children – far too many women have tried to claim they belong to him (he knows for a fact at least two-thirds of them were lying). This one is especially odd, however, staring intently at his beloved ship and…

The child raises his arm, one chubby finger pointed at the far-moored Pearl as he beams up at Jack.

“Bo’!”

This is the final straw. He’s suffered the indignity of sailing under Barbossa’s rule, aboard his own ship, no less! He’s part of some plan that he has no knowledge of, and therefore no method by which to manipulate it. His crew aren’t speaking to him, there’s this truly awful business with the Turners (again.), and now this gremlin has the audacity to insult his seafaring lady?

A boat?

A BOAT?!

His hands raise, fingers twisting uselessly, eyes bugging, when-

“Jack Sparrow, what the HELL are you doing with my son?”

William Turner emerges from the waves like some pretentious sculpture in a Greek temple, face thunderous as he strides towards Jack and the child. Jack looks down. The boy’s now tottering towards Will, face lit up as he holds up his arms to be picked up.

That’s William Turner’s son.

That’s WILLIAM TURNER'S son.

Jack looks up, flabbergasted.

“He’s YOUR son?

...

Does Lizzie know?”

Will rolls his eyes, the boy now clinging to his neck like a limpet.

“Well, Jack, considering he’s also Elizabeth’s son, I’d think so!”

This is the son of William Turner and Elizabeth Swann, captain of the Flying Dutchman and King of pirates. The grandson of ‘Bootstrap’ Bill Turner, one of the finest pirates ever to share a deck with Jack. This is an outrage.

“Then why the HELL haven’t you taught him what a ship is?”

Will raises a disbelieving eyebrow in his direction, and he’s sure he can hear a few muffled sniggers behind him. He doesn’t care. In fact, he can feel a smile twitching at his face, further confusing Will.

This is an unforeseen complication, a rather significant issue. This will rather throw a spanner into any secretive plans concerning one dear William.

And it’s not. His. Problem.


	2. Chapter two, in which Jack Sparrow should not be left unsupervised around children

Hector Barbossa is not pleased with this development.

Jack extrapolates this conclusion from the gentle twitching of Hector’s left eyelid, and the slackness of his jaw as he stares at the lad clutched in William’s tight grip. It’s a wonder to behold, really. Jack hasn’t seen anything this entertaining in weeks.

He’s smirked through Hector’s muffled curse at the sight of Turner’s son - and, oh, why is he not called William? Such an affront to tradition is the name ‘Henry’, really –and downright giggled at dear William’s expression during darling Hector’s impassioned recruitment speech. It’s William’s answer, however, that has him outright beaming.

William gently sets Henry on a comparatively clean patch of the floor, ruffling his hair before stepping forward to stand directly before Barbossa.

“No.”

A dark look comes over Barbossa’s face, and he steps forward to stand before Will, leaning towards him.

“Beg pardon, Master Turner?”

“No. I have a son to raise. I’m working as a blacksmith -an honest trade, if you can grasp the concept- and I certainly do not intend to get involved with pirates again.”

Hector is so amusing to tease, so capable of working a situation with his slippery, oozing humour – it’s interesting to see him for once not getting his way, but simultaneously sobering to remember why he so rarely doesn’t get it. And while he’s delighted that Will is even less thrilled than himself about the prospect of Turners aboard the Black Pearl once more, he’s not keen to see lovely Lizzie’s reaction to Barbossa should he lose his temper with Will. The smile slips from Jack’s face as Barbossa starts to speak, his voice a low growl.

“Ye’ll try to keep that boy from the sea the same way you were kept? Ye’ll deny the blood in your veins, the blood in his? Stay cosy ‘pon the shore ‘til a less gracious crew arrives and gives you far less’ve a chan-”

“Hang that!’, William roared, banging his fist on the chart table. Henry startled from his seat on the floor, little body flinching into a ball.

“Piracy cost me my wife, my father – any chance I had at a normal life! Henry won’t meet his mother for another 6 years, and for what. A day?”

The cabin is quiet but for Will’s shouting and Henry’s quiet whimpers. Jack can’t help but wonder if it’s he first time the boy has ever seen his father this angry. Lucky lad.

“Now you want to drag us out of what little home we’ve created, for some purpose that I can’t know, where you’ll no doubt destroy Henry’s life just like you destroyed mine!”

Will’s shouting subsides, his chest heaving. He seems to suddenly become aware of his son’s crying, moving back and dropping down to crouch beside Henry as he stares at Barbossa’s unmoved sneer.

“Had’ye let me finish, Turner, I’d have told you that the grand purpose ye so kindly reminded me of would be the wishes of your dear wife, the so keen as she be to keep her family from harm. 

Henry, now curled around Will for comfort, looks up as his father stiffens in response to Barbossa’s words. Shock contorts Will’s face, fury curling his eyebrows – before his face relaxes into defeat. He stands, Henry clinging like a limpet to his chest. Safe in his corner, away from Barbossa’s scrutiny, Jack lets his eyebrows lift in disbelief, solidarity, and a vague wiggle of pride. That is not the expression of a man happy in marriage – he has, however, seen it many times on the face of a man newly-slapped. 

Oooh. Whatever have the dear Turners got themselves into? Or, he supposes, out of?

Will turns, not saying another word, and walks towards the door.

“Shall I take that as a yes or nay?”

Will doesn’t stop, words thrown over his shoulder.

“I suppose that’s up to my wife.”

The door slams, and he’s alone with Hector. The smirk has disappeared from between the ginger scraggles, however, the current captain sporting something of the slapped look himself. 

“We weigh anchor in the morning. Tell the men.”

Jack decides that self-preservation is a better option than deciphering exactly how Barbossa knows that Will and son will be on board in the morning, or how he plans to ensure it, and turns to follow Will’s path.

“Don’t interfere, Jack.”

He spins, pasting a wide smile under distant eyes.

“Mate. Do I strike you as the type?”

\-------------------------------------------------------

There’s a donkey giving him an entirely undeserved glare. 

He is Captain – yes, he’s working on it – Jack Sparrow. He has faced the scourges of the sea, the best of the navy, the most demanding of lovers. He has triumphed, drank and diced every moment of freedom allowed, and many more not. This is a donkey. He’s not going to be bested by an as-oh. The donkey has just been moved by the miniature human Will has been carting around all morning. The miniature human now staring right at him.

Jack’s not entirely certain how one approaches a child. He’s fairly sure it’s one of the rare situations that don’t involve rum, but considering he recently induced debauchery, drunkenness and unknown depths of depravity in a well-respected convent, he could be approaching this situation all wrong.   
He gives the matter careful thought, and, deciding he’d rather not share his meager rum supply with the devil-spawn of Swann and Turner, crouches down to offer the four-year-old a handshake, rather than alcohol.

“Captain Jack Sparrow. Let it be known that anything dear daddy has told you about me is entirely untrue, unless of course it involves women, gold and any dashing good looks I am said to possess.”

The boy stares at him, unusually solemn but for the tears at the corner of his eyes, and offers his hand for a gentle shake.   
Wait.   
Tears he would expect, given William’s earlier little tantrum, but that was a full hour ago. Surely the lad’s gotten over it by now.

“ ’M Henry. Do you know the men with Father? He made me go outside to talk to them.”

Men. Father. Made his only son leave, knowing full well that the Black Pearl’s crew could have followed him home with laughable ease.

Bugger.

He extracts his hand from henry’s grip, creeping forward to push the forge door open. The room beyond is empty. Well, it’s cluttered beyond belief with weapons – Dear God Will needs a woman – tools, and miscellaneous rubbish that those not inhabiting ships seem to accrue, but it’s empty of people. There’s movement by his leg, and he looks down to see young Henry, the boy having followed him into the forge. Jack risks another step in, carefully closing the door behind him. There’s a low murmur at the back of the room, behind what appears to be another door. Voices? Eyes squinted, Jack raises his foot to step forward, and then jerks it back as a *thump* echoes along the back wall.

 

Right. He scans the room again, looking for a hiding place suitable for a small Turner, and locates a dusty cupboard under a rack of swords. Moving swiftly, he plucks the lad from the floor and sets him carefully into the cramped space. He holds one finger to his lips, making to look for a weapon for the boy to defend himself with before remembering exactly what’s crouched in the hollow before him. A child of four, yes, but the child of Elizabeth Swann. He’s not giving it a weapon. 

Jack closes the door over gently, leaving a crack for air and light, and for two scared eyes to peek through.  
“I’ll get dear old dad. Don’t you be doing any stupid ‘til then.”, he whispers, drawing his sword and stepping gently towards the back door. His mind races, searching for the pieces to become clear and line together, to shine through the rum-fogged recesses of his mind. He’s got the basics of an idea, involving three unfinished swords, a length of rope, the donkey, fire and what appears to be a waste bucket, when the muffled noises swell into a high, prolonged cry of pain, nearly drowning out the sudden whimper behind him. 

Bugger.

Bugger.

Bugger.

No plan it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having so much fun with this!
> 
> Also, sorry Jackie, things are gonna get much, much worse before they get better.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Jack. You're not getting off that easily, love.


End file.
